


With Liberty and Justice for All

by cosmicConundrum



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternatalia, Alternate History, American Revolution, Angst, Fluff, Happy Ending, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Time Travel, canonverse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-07-21 14:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7390621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicConundrum/pseuds/cosmicConundrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England desperately wishes that America never left him the night before the 4th of July, as he recalls his past with America. During his emotional turmoil, his fairy friends offer him a chance to see what it would be like if America never left him. England accepts, but he finds that the only way the past has changed is that he violently ended America's revolution, instead of sparing him at the last moment. Now England is stuck in the past, and he must figure out how to deal with everything in this alternate chain of events.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. England's Lament

**Author's Note:**

> Here goes my first multi-chapter Hetalia fic! It's what I call the "In Which England finds out what it is like for America to never leave him" fic. It may be sad now, but it will only get slightly sadder, before receiving the happy ending it deserves. Please don't cry too much. I'm so sorry I don't know what happened to me I used to hate sad fanfics but then historical Hetalia happened. But worry not. The ending shall be very happy.
> 
> Please enjoy this slightly darker take on Independence Day. Happy birthday, America, I'm so sorry.
> 
> Also, I know this is horribly cliche and all, but I couldn't resist joining the flood of 4th of July USUK fics. Sorry?

Loud thunder shook a quiet nation from the depths of something that could only be described as semi-conscious bliss. England jerked upright into a sitting position and turned his head towards the window, just in time to see a bright flash of lightning, followed by another round of rolling thunder. Heavy rain continued to pelt the screen and glass of the windows. The blond man clenched the edge of his quilt with shaking, pale hands, and tried not to let the rain get to him.

It was the night of July 3rd. The night before the 4th. The Fourth. Independence Day, the day where a certain cheerful and sunny nation celebrated, out of all the ridiculous things he celebrated, leaving England. The exhausted aforementioned older nation couldn’t help but seethe slightly at the thought. Had America invented the holiday just to rub England’s suffering in his face, repeatedly, every chance he got? Knowing the younger nation’s patriotism, it was highly likely. In the darkness, it was hard to notice the heavy bags under England’s eyes, the only thing hinting at his sorrow for the past week. Every year it was the exact same thing. England’s health would start dwindling as soon as the end of June neared. By the start of July, he was usually forced to stay in bed by whatever superiors he happened to be around, as he would start hacking up a storm at the mere thought of his former colony. Last year, his queen had caught him coughing up blood, and she had been so concerned she told him he would get the entire week off every year from then on.

The actual fourth of July was always the worst day out of his two-week-long endeavor. Sometimes, to quell the aching pain from his heart, he would take to the nearest pub and get himself so drunk he wouldn’t wake up and be able to remember anything he had done until nearly a full day later. Then, the thought of America would once more bring his mood down, until sufficient time had passed for the aching to stop. And the whole cycle would repeat itself. Sometimes America himself would call up on England and ask how he was doing. England always gave him the same response -- a polite, but forced apology for not attending his birthday party, often interrupted by harsh coughing and a panicked America asking him if he was alright.

No, England wanted to scream aloud for the first time in his long life. No, he was not okay.

At the present, probably a few hours before midnight, England was in America, not England, where he would still be crying his eyes out. But he would always run out of tears, and then spend the night moping by himself until at last he fell into an exhausted state of unconsciousness from staying awake the previous week or so after being haunted by nightmares, and, therefore, the lack of sleep.

England listened to the pattering rain before finally acknowledging what he needed to acknowledge. Why was he even here, in America, for an event he clearly needed to try to shut out from his life as much as possible? Even mentioning or speaking about the fourth of July would bring great harm to his physical and mental health. Being in America during the fourth of July was like a death sentence. Except England couldn’t die, because he was a nation, and nations were mostly immortal, so all he could do was suffer.

He knew the answer to his own self-inflicted question. He had come because he didn’t want America to feel bad. Despite the fact that America clearly did not care about England that much, he would still call up England every fourth of july whenever he got a break from all his intense partying. England knew that America must be a tad bit worried, and he was not being a proper gentleman, nor ally, nor friend, at all. And so he had decided earlier in the year, as per the suggestion of his usually wise queen, to come to America’s birthday that year. It would be a good morale boost for the both of them, the queen had said. Not that America’s morale needed any boosting, especially on such a day. And England wasn’t so sure it would help him more than it would hurt him.

Nonetheless, he tried to be a good gentleman and come here anyway. And so he did. He had hobbled off the plane to be escorted by America to the guest room in one of America’s lavishly large mansions, all while coughing in a highly embarrassing manner. England then requested to America that he be left alone for the rest of the day, as he was tired -- which was only partially true. He did kind of want to avoid America. He couldn’t handle seeing the younger nation so happy for a reason he really, really did not want to think about…

He interrupted his own thoughts with more coughing. England stopped after a moment, and desperately hoped that there wasn’t any blood on his hands. He didn’t know what he would tell America if the younger nation saw any blood.

Anyways, it had been a good idea at the time to come to America’s party. England had not gone to America’s party once, not for all two hundred something years of his existence as an independent nation. And England figured, at last, that he should have gone. But now he was regretting his decision as dark memories surfaced from his past once more. The rain didn’t help either. It was always sunny in America, so why was it like this tonight? Out of all the days the weather could have chosen to rain…

England squeezed his eyes shut tightly as those painful memories once again overtook his thoughts. Oh, the pain! No matter how hard he tried to throw the cloth over those memories, to leave them dusty and forgotten in an abandoned corner of his mind, they simply would not leave him. It seemed to be simply part of his nature. England could not forget any of his older days, especially not the sadder ones. And what could be more sad than the great divide separating him and America?

England would not cry.

He would not cry and make a fool of himself, not even while he was alone in a guest room in the house of his former colony and present ally in the middle of the night. He would not allow his remaining pride to be wounded in such a way. He had lasted all of the present week of independence without alcohol or drunken ramblings, and he would not succumb to the sadness, not now. He knew that if he started lamenting, he would never stop, and he would wake up in the morning feeling horrible, with swollen eyes, providing the nightmares hadn’t left him to fester, awake and unable to push the memories away, for the rest of the night.

But then he remembered a little boy standing in flowing white cloth amongst the waving gold wheat of a field. And the way that the little boy had run to him, choosing him over France, over France’s food, something he now knew America could not resist in any other way. And he remembered coming back to a growing America, his own surprise at the younger’s growth spurts. And he remembered the tension, the fighting in later years. And there came that day when he heard the gunshot, after he received that document formed by America’s makeshift government. And there had been battles. And blood. And rain, and more rain. And tears. And so many dead bodies.

And then there came that fateful day where the two had met, all close and personal, on the battlefield. Previously they had fought in person at the same battles, but they had never run into each other, never seen each other face-to-face amongst all the chaos. And perhaps it was for the best too. England knew that he probably would have collapsed at the sight of his colony-soon-to-be-victorious-nation. Though England never thought about it during the war, he knew that sooner or later, he would have to face America in person. And he wasn’t sure what he would do. Would he treat America in the same harsh manner he treated his people? Or would he beg him to stop, to come back? That very possible scenario he had been avoiding had finally, and forcefully, confronted him. England had raised his musket at America, and tried convincing himself that he would do it. That he would be able to show America true punishment for his wrongs. But he couldn’t. Not to his sweet colony, brother, America. Not to America.

So he fell to the mud as rain poured over the battlefield, kneeling before a man that had once been a boy no taller than his knee.

“You used to be so great,” America had said, as England cried for the first time in centuries. “What happened?”

And then America had left him. He had walked away along with the rest of his men, and left England to continue weeping by himself, so that the mud and rain seemed to close in on him and drown him.

England forcefully ended his flashback at this point. He could not go any further without breaking down completely. The tears had already started, as they always had. When had they not? They cascaded over his cheeks in a manner that could almost be described as comical, if not for the overly heavy emotional reason behind them. England fruitlessly tried to wipe away some of them with a swipe of his hand. Then, he continued to stare out the window at the endless night, with only raindrops streaming down the window and occasionally violent flashes of lightning and even more violent rumbling thunder to interrupt the darkness. He continued weeping, by himself. Alone. As he truly always had been.

Just then, a different flashing light appeared by his head. He hesitantly turned with swollen eyes to face the light, and realized, with relief, it was one of the fairies. Had she come to comfort him, all the way across the Atlantic Ocean? He was greatly touched by this small act of kindness, for he had nothing else to cling to that he knew of.

He held out a finger for her to land her, and asked her of this. She nodded, and he let a bitter smile form on his sorrowful face. Just then, England noticed other twinkling lights floating towards him as well. The little fairy paused for a moment, and turned to her companions almost as if they were having a silent conversation. Like they were considering something. Then, she turned to face England once more, her little wings fluttering in what could only be mischief.

“England,” she whispered in a high, tinkling voice, “Would you like to know?”

“Would I like to know what?” England asked, sniffling once more as he tried to clear the tears from his vision so that not everything would be blurry.

“Would you like to know what it would be like if America had never left you?”

England stopped at this, and his mouth fell open dramatically. Would he like to know? His emotionally burdened mind rewound to that one moment, of America, _his_ America, turning on his heel and leaving him, and he again was overcome in a fresh wave of tears. What would it be like, he wondered, if that had never happened? Did America realize that what he was doing was wrong? England could only picture it -- America apologizing, the two of them reconciling, and everything returning to normal. His sweet, wonderful colony once more regarding him with respect. Would the two continue to have fun exploring the land? Would England continue to train America in all he knew? Would they get along without any fighting? Would they have been able to fix the anger and hurt between the two of them? Would, would, would… the word bounced around in England’s mind for almost a solid minute before he could gather his thoughts.

He turned to the little fairies, the only comforting glowing of light amongst a dark room.

“Yes,” he whispered.

A single flash of lightning lit up the room too brightly for it to be natural, followed by crashing thunder that seemed to shatter reality into pieces.

 

* * *

 

England hovered in the air somewhere above a flowing golden field. The waves of wheat rolled in the wind like waves in the ocean. The familiarity of the scene confused the blond nation for a moment. It had seemed like not so long ago, he was in this exact position. But what had he been doing again? The fogginess of his mind did not seem to be natural. Just then he realized that he was floating, in midair. Like he was flying. And when he looked down, he realized he didn’t seem to physically have a body.

Before he could fully process what that meant, he watched as another figure walked in the field a short distance away. England strained his nonexistant eyes to try to identify the person for a moment, before he realized with so much horror his entire spine seemed to freeze up that the person was _him_.

A slightly younger England took a few steps in the flowing golden grain, dressed in a blouse-like white shirt with long sleeves and a brown vest. In his arms, he cradled an even younger boy. Present England could hardly believe his eyes at the sight. It was little America. The small child had wrapped his tiny arms around his past self’s neck, and his head lolled peacefully against his past self’s shoulder. England could barely make out the contented grin on America’s face. The very sight of America, all small and cute again, was almost sweet enough to give him a heart attack.

Present England tried hard not to cry. He tried very, very hard. But it occurred to him that he didn’t seem to be there in person at the moment, as his past self didn’t even notice him floating around a distance away. He wanted to call out to the two, to awaken young America so that _he_ himself could hold him, so that he could once again feel his precious colony in his arms. It had been centuries since he got to see little America in person, and the sheer emotional weight of it was quickly becoming too much for him to handle. America was so much sweeter and cuter than he remembered. Present England regretted the fact that there weren’t any cameras around in the colonial days, because he would have taken so many pictures if there were, in order to preserve America’s innocence so that he could forever remember it for all eternity.

The truth was, England missed being the older brother of America.

In that moment, past England turned his head in the general direction of where the other England must have been floating, and although he didn’t seem to spot the other nation, the scene changed. The entire world seemed to shatter into small pieces, like reality itself was being cracked.

England floated along in dark oblivion before the pieces came together to form another scene, sometime later.

He was floating above a large expanse of water, and it took him a moment to register the fact that he was somewhere in a harbor. Despite the fact that he didn’t seem to physically have a body at the moment, he could smell the distinct salty breeze, and feel the wind on his face. A couple of seagulls shrieked as they flew by on their way across the harbor. The docks were busy with small fishing boats and men, as well as other civilians making their way through the bustling town of Boston. To his left the village lay, and to his right stretched the harbor connected to the sea. A seagull screamed as it passed dangerously close by where he floated. Somewhere farther away, a vendor’s sale cries could be heard. England wondered what could be so special of this moment. It seemed like a very normal, sunny day in colonial America.

Just then, he turned to see a large ship sail in from the vast expanse that must have been the Atlantic Ocean. England continued watching as the beautiful, elegant ship made its way into the harbor and slowed down in time to safely dock at the docks. Hardworking men called out orders as they manned the sails and adjusted the ropes for a smoother landing. Soon, the ship was safely anchored and ready for boarding and unloading. England willed himself to float closer to the docks to see what was going on. He recognized the ship, even as his mind wandered around in hazy and forgotten memories. Perhaps it was one of the ships he used during his pirating days.

All of a sudden, he spotted a young boy that couldn’t have been older than twelve burst out of the crowds, shoving a few adults out of the way in his haste to get closer to the ship that had just arrived. England’s metaphysically nonpresent eyes widened. It was America yet again. The young lad was so bright and cheerful and energetic. He really was no different than he was in the present. England continued watching as America continued running, and even seemed to speed up, in his quest to reach the ship. The little child’s clothes and hair billowed in the wind as he ran. From the ship, another figure, which England recognized to be his past self, stepped onto the dock, and was quickly tackled by America. The two fell roughly onto the dock, but both were laughing too hard to really notice the small amount of pain. Present England couldn’t help but smile at the sweetness of it all.

Past England carefully pushed America away, and the two of them stood up, but only after embracing one another for a solid minute.

“You’ve grown so much, America,” he said, pride ringing loud and clear from his voice.

“Soon I’ll be as big as you!” America claimed, and puffed out his chest in a mirror of the same pride his guardian carried.

Past England ruffled the young boy’s hair, and looked around briefly to take in the environment. It had likely been a few years since he came to America, so it was always high time for an update on how the colonies were doing. A gentle breeze whipped his long red coat around him, while America simply continued to smile so widely it was surprising his face didn’t just split in two.

“Well, come along, then. We should get inside as soon as possible. How have you been faring?” England asked of the proud little colony.

“Ooh, I have so many stories to tell! I bet you can’t wait until you hear them! Come on, let’s go!” America yelled, latched onto past England’s hand, and attempted to drag him to their house, quite a ways from the docks. The whole time, past England laughed, while America complained that they weren’t getting there fast enough.

The whole encounter had left present England somewhere between laughing himself out of breath or crying at the bittersweetness of it all. He could only feel the dark aura of what he knew he was going to see next, and he was not looking forward to it at all. He would much rather fondly remember the old days, the good days, when he and America had known happiness together. Alas, England knew he couldn’t hold back the inevitable. He should know. He had tried too many times on dark nights, alone in his bed, as he cried himself to sleep from all the memories. He knew what was coming next.

The scene before him shattered once more, like a mirror, before the shards recombined to show him the dreaded moment at last.

It was raining. The telltale gray sky hung overhead, all cloudy and depressing. Far away, a small patch of land was lit up by a strike of lightning, before darkening to the dim amount of light that managed to pass through the angry gray clouds. A small entourage of men surrounded one figure clad in blue, and another a figure clad in red. The two groups were separated from one another, but only by a small patch of land. Instead, the two central figures were facing one another off, like a darker version of one of those high noon faceoffs that were bound to happen in a hundred years or so relative to the moment England was seeing.

America pointed his musket at past England, and past England pointed his back.

“I’m no longer your little brother. From now on, consider me independent!” America shouted, and his voice rang loud and clear even through the deafening rain pattering down in the background.

Past England roared, charged forward, and hit the musket out of America’s hands. Present England watched on in anguish and regret as his past self leveled the musket directly at young America’s face. Too far away, the American soldiers aimed their muskets at the offender. The rain continued falling as if the small scene had no effect on it at all.

At this moment, present England suddenly grew closer to the scene, and then, before he could even process what was happening, his consciousness merged with his past self.  He could see nothing for blinding white for a moment, and it was in that moment that he heard, with absolute horror, the firing of a musket.

The blinding white spots cleared from England’s vision just as America fell to the ground. England was standing where his past self had been standing just a moment ago, and he knew from the way America’s form was crumpled on the ground that the poor boy had been shot. England quickly threw away the musket he was holding, and with violently shaking hands, gathered up America in his arms. The tears came once more, as they always had whenever the thought of this moment came up, but now the moment was so much more real, and so much more tragic than it had been before. England could feel the cold rain seeping into his red coat, but it couldn’t have been any colder than the darkness rapidly enveloping his heart. Had he been the one to shoot America? It must have happened when he finally settled into the body of his past self.

What had he done? Was this what the fairies meant when they told him that America would never rebel? Was killing America the only way to stop him from leaving him? And he hadn’t even touched the musket, it had fired on its own as England entered his past self’s body. Now, it seemed that he was physically a part of the past instead of being a third person viewer from the outside. And history had been changed for the worse.

England was kneeling in the mud, and he continued sobbing as he gingerly stroked America’s golden hair, and refused to move at all. Then, he realized that the other American soldiers hadn’t shot him yet. He spared a glance up, and realized that they were all gone. In fact, all of the soldiers were collapsed on the ground, as rain and red pooled around their lifeless bodies. Just then, the pieces clicked together. England must have defeated the last of the rebels, and in turn, America had fallen. He was but a defeated nation at this point. And England, England himself, was somehow responsible. The thought of harming America was almost too much for him to bear. This alternate event would change the course of history forever, and it seemed that he himself was trapped in this timeline until he could find a way out.

When England accepted the fairies’ offer, he wanted a second chance to be able to see what he could have done different. He wanted a vision, not some twisted reality! And he wanted there to be a vision without violence, but instead this had happened. He had been made to harm America, something he never wanted to do and even went out of his way to avoid doing. And it seemed that he had actually gone back in time to change history. What was he going to do? What was America going to do? America never intended this to happen, England was sure… but now he carried all the responsibility. England had to fix it.

The older nation kissed America gently on the forehead in reparation, even as the rain continued to poor, cradled his sweet, sweet colony to his chest, and wondered if the boy would be able to survive.

 


	2. Justice must be Served

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England wakes up to find that the past has been altered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to research this. So hard. As you can tell, I'm not very good at researching, nor applying what I learned from researching to my writing. I rushed to finish this. And I completely gave up trying to write with colonial era terminology and phrases, because most people would probably get tired of the manner of speech.
> 
> While researching, I found an archive/collection on fanfiction.net that contained over 20 fanfics with the exact same idea. I don't know what you guys expected when you decided to read this, but I'm just going to warn that this is a very, very cliche fanfic, though attempts at plot variation will be made. Sorry?

 

When England woke up again, he was no longer in his bed at America’s house, like he had been expecting. He had hoped the whole thing was a dream. It was not. On the other hand, he hadn’t fallen unconscious in the middle of a muddy field with his former colony, while freezing rain continued to pour down on both of them, either. Instead, he was in a different bed, one that was oddly familiar. The scent of the sheets and the room alone were enough to tickle suppressed and long forgotten memories tucked away somewhere in the dark corners of his mind. England looked around in confusion until his gaze found the open window and the scenery outside. It was definitely no longer raining; the weather outside was about as sunny as could be.

England turned his attention back to the room, took a moment to study the room a bit further, and finally came to the conclusion that the nightmare that had occurred yesterday was not a nightmare. In fact, it appeared that everything was now permanently cemented in reality. He seemed to be stuck in colonial America, sometime after the revolution. England did not have an exact time estimate for the year -- it could be anywhere from 1776 to 1830. The telltale lack of electronics gave away the general time period away easily enough, though. Yesterday’s events flashed through England’s mind once more, and he found himself wondering why he retained no memories of exactly what had happened after the tragedy in the muddy field. And then, England remembered America.

 _Oh god_ , England thought as his calm demeanor turned to panic, _is he okay?_

The nation flung his thick cotton covers aside and leapt off the mattress like it was on fire. He didn’t even bother checking to see if he was adequately clothed, or if he had shoes on. His only concern what that for his precious, sweet, colony-once-more. And for all England knew, America could be dead, because of whatever ripple effect England had caused by somehow travelling back in time and alternating history. Damn his fairy friends.

The memory of that single gunshot, the collapse of the young man, and the blood that rapidly pooled under his limp form was enough to cause England to practically rip the door off its hinges in his haste to find out if America was alright. The doorknob slammed into the wall as it was thrown open. He would not be surprised to find a dent in the wall.

England found himself staring at the wall opposite of the door, one which bordered a long and eerily silent hallway. Two glances at either end told him close to nothing, though he did note that one was clearly a dead end. There were other doors, however, which led to presumably empty rooms. _Perhaps America was in one of them_ , England’s feverishly worried mind wondered. Of course, since all of England’s memories of any events post-failed-succession were nonexistent, he had no idea how much time had passed since the events of “yesterday”, and no idea how he even got into this mysterious building. What were the chances of America being in one of these rooms?

England guessed looking around couldn’t hurt.

The blond quietly slid in front of the closest door, and, sensing the lack of active movements and voices inside, quietly turned the doorknob and opened the door. A loud squeak echoed through the area as the door was opened. The room was empty, though it appeared to have been inhabited by a person at some point in recent history. On a cherrywood table at the opposite side of the room lay a rolled up parchment, an inkwell, and a pen. To the left of the table was a large bookshelf warped with age. None of the books lying on the shelves seem to have been moved in years, if not decades. There was no bed, although there was a small, stiff-looking green couch in the corner. Perhaps England was in a hotel. He quickly moved out of the room, shut the door, and approached his next target.

Five rooms later, and still no evidence of where he was. England leaned against the wall, tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and exhaled softly.

His next course of action was to pad down the the hallway and turn a corner. He would likely find a longer hallway with more rooms. And, just as he thought, he discovered an even larger and more elegant hallway. This hallway was significantly wider with a higher ceiling, and was decorated lavishly with oil paintings of important people England hadn’t thought about in centuries. But he couldn’t spend too much time pondering over those familiar faces and what important roles they had held. He needed to find America, and to see if he was okay, to bandage him if needed, to apologize to him, _anything._

Just then, England heard voices from around the bend of the hallway. Upon straining his ears a little further, he deduced that it was two men, who were likely soldiers. From what sentence fragments he could hear, he also discovered that the building was of high political importance. Maybe it was the local governor’s mansion…

England looked around quickly before deciding that it was probably a good idea to hide. He wasn’t sure how these soldiers would react to seeing someone who probably wasn’t supposed to be there, especially if England happened to be wearing some unconventional clothing that would immediately mark him as suspicious and probably get him in trouble if nobody recognized him as Arthur Kirkland.

He turned around to run back to the room he was in before. Unfortunately, he was too slow. A door no more than two feet to his right opened, and someone stepped out. The world seemed to freeze. A man donned in a red coat with rather fancy black cuffs and a cravat turned to face the nation. England found himself unable to recall anything even as he continued staring at the man that was so familiar to him, last seen in a faint flickering memory at the edge of consciousness. But he knew that he knew he man, because he had definitely seen him before, somehow. It was like all of England’s memories about the distant past were hidden behind a wall. He knew they were there, but he couldn’t get to them.

“Arthur!” the man said, smiling, “It is good to see you up. How are you faring?”

England hesitated. So the man knew him, though it was questionable as to whether or not the man was of high enough rank to know that England was in fact the personification of England. He desperately wanted to ask where he was, what the year was, what had been going on with the revolution… but he didn’t want to give himself away. Plus, if the man really did know England, and England started asking ridiculous questions, he would likely deduce that the nation was in need of confinement to a bed for a good while.

“Are you alright?” the man asked after a while, breaking the awkward silence that had settled between them.

“I, um,” England said, then paused, and hesitated for a moment, “I’m not feeling too well.”

The man paused and seemed to consider this.

“Very well. I believe it would be unwise to ask you to go see General Howe to finish discussing the terms the war has come to, then,” the man replied.

And all of a sudden, England knew exactly what had happened. It was as if the floodgates to his mind’s inner workings, where all his memories as a nation resided, were opened. Being a nation, England and all the others had the ability to instantly know what was happening on the grounds of his country, as well as all interactions with all other countries. Being sent back in time had seemed to mess up that ability since he woke up, but apparently he still had it.

He knew that America had been defeated in his revolution, and that the war was over.

Meanwhile, as England thought about all of this, the mysterious man who he had finally remembered as Henry Clinton, one of his own generals during the revolution, was politely but impatiently waiting for England’s reply. He had to think fast and not say something stupid that would definitely arise suspicion. For all he knew, one wrong word could permanently cement reality the way it was right now. As much as poor England hated to admit it, he wasn’t too happy about regaining America as a colony. Not at the price it had come to. And he still wasn’t sure if America was okay.

The only thing England was sure of was that Henry definitely knew who he was. He clearly remembered meeting and being introduced to the general by the king himself sometime during the war. Of course, England wasn’t sure if the same thing had happened in this alternate timeline, and from his own perspective, had happened centuries ago. But since the general definitely had the clearance, England could ask to see if he knew anything about a poor young teenager that had a horrible wound in the chest.

“No, no, I’m fine. Do not worry. I can go talk to General Howe,” England said with the fake authority and confidence of someone who had ruled the world.

General Clinton nodded.

“I must see to it that my younger brother is okay. Do you know where he is?” England asked.

The general’s wince was practically audible. A growing sense of dread filled the nation as his mind began to wonder and eventually panic.

“Is something wrong?” England asked again, and this time he was nowhere as confident as he pretended. Worry began to overcome his calamity.

“Well,” the man cleared his throat, “You can find him in the hospital building a few roads down. I’m sure you know where it is.”

The general clearly looked uncomfortable, but England could hardly care less. He knew where America was and now all he needed to do was get to the boy. From the limited exchanges made during the conversation, he knew that something was definitely not okay.

England spouted a hurried goodbye to the general, then turned around and practically ran down the hall towards a staircase he had somehow known existed despite not seeing it earlier. As he ran down the staircase, he passed and startled two maids who had been carrying a tray of what was probably tea. A small corner of his mind reminded him that was definitely not wearing shoes, as he had come to discover while speedwalking out the door, down the stone steps, and directly onto the dirt road. Oh well. He could handle the lack of comfort.

It was surprisingly sunny outside, as it always was in America. A few cheerful, puffy, and white clouds floated through the sky, completely contrasting the fear and anxiety England had felt earlier upon realizing what had happened after “yesterday”. A cart clanked by, two men sitting in the cart as stoic and unfriendly as could be.

England’s speedwalking soon quickened to a sprint. He sped down the dirt road, kicking up dirt and dust as he ran, eager to get to the large white building with small windows several turns away.

 

* * *

 

A nurse carefully washing dishes yelped in surprise when she saw a young man with blond hair, unruly eyebrows, a banyan, and no shoes burst through the doors, pause in the middle of the room, scan the surroundings, then speed off again towards one of the patients’ rooms. The tall candles sitting on the tea table wobbled precariously with his movements.

The maid did not try to stop him, or even question who he was.

England ran as fast as his slippery socks allowed him to. It was a stupid decision not to wear shoes. Once or twice he almost slipped on the wooden floor. When he reached the second floor, he peeked in room after room with the hopes that it would be America lying there, perfectly fine, but he was disappointed after every opened door.

Finally, at the end of the hallway, at the very last room, England opened the door to find a teenager resting in a small and uncomfortable looking bed. He was blond, with dark gold hair England had always compared to the golden fields of his land, and that one strand that always stood up no matter how hard they tried to smooth it down was still standing there, all separate from the rest of his hair. There was no mistaking that man.

The older, conscious nation trudged across the room.

When he finally reached the bed, he finally saw the bandages wrapped around the boy’s forehead and chest, as well as the blood soaking through them. England practically lurched forward and fell over then, but he didn’t. He was frozen, standing there at the side of the bed, by the colony he had hurt himself.

There was a chair by the bed, so England sat down. He lifted his hand, hesitated, then began combing his fingers through the boy’s hair. America groaned softly, then stilled. He was alive. Unconscious, maybe, but alive. England could not even begin to describe the utter joy and happiness that filled him just then. If America had actually died, England wasn’t sure what he would do with himself. And since he was apparently the one that had caused America’s injury, he was responsible.

From England’s perspective, it had been over two centuries since he saw America in his youth like this. Without his glasses, the teen looked almost like a boy, untainted by the horrors of the outside world. Despite his injuries, America looked relaxed in his sleep.

The room, too, was peaceful.

A small window partially obscured by a curtain let in just enough light to allow one to navigate around the beds without tripping. England found himself drowning in nostalgia. It had been too long since he was away from the constant overuse of electricity. The soft light in the darkened hospital room was almost comforting. In his thoughts, England found himself staring out the window at the countryside. It was still sunny, just as before, and the silence that hung in the air made the whole landscape seem too serene to be real. Where were all the birds, the wildlife? Where was the wind? Where were the bustling colonists, busy with the day’s duties?

The nation’s attention was directed towards a bloodhound wandering around the dirt road, occasionally lowering its head to sniff the ground.

America suddenly shifted in his bed, and appeared to clearly be in some sort of pain. His eyebrows were scrunches together, and his face was flushed. England rested a hand on the boy’s forehead and discovered that he seemed to have a fever. Along with the other injuries, this would probably hurt America’s ability to recover, if he could recover at all. Fevers signified major economic, political, or social issues with a nation, after all. England frowned. Suddenly, America grabbed onto England’s arm with a grip so tight it could probably break the leg of a table. England winced.

“Are you alri--”

“Don’t leave,” America whispered, voice barely audible.

England almost teared up at this. Here America was, barely conscious, with a fever, a bullet wound, and an inability to recover, and he was holding on to England like he would never let go. The younger nation probably wasn’t even aware that he was talking, he was so out of it…

Someone shouted something from outside the window.

England whipped around to face the window to see the dog from earlier turning around, barking at something, or someone, and then running away. A man wearing a loose linen shirt and black breeches stumbled into England’s field of vision. A colonist. The man was shoved to the ground, the movement accompanied by a shout. England narrowed his eyes.

Another man stepped closer -- a British soldier. He was wore an elaborate scarlet jacket, and, unfortunately, also seemed to be carrying a musket. The poor man on the ground received curses, ornery shouts, and degrading comments, each punctuated with a whack by the butt of the musket. England winced with every word. The colonist protested, sat upright, and seemed to say something. Suddenly, both of them froze. The soldier frowned down at the colonist with disgust, then kicked him in the stomach. The man doubled over on the ground and cried out in pain as he clutched his abdomen.

England had had enough of this sight. He may have been a different person in the past, and he probably would have advocated for the same treatment for people who betrayed him, but he knew he would never have allowed the same for America, and he definitely knew differently now. He stood up, and upon hearing America’s soft cry of protest, gently took hold of the boy’s hand and placed it by his side. He whispered, “Rest, now. I’ll be back.”

In a matter of mere seconds, England had calmly made his way out of the room, through the hallway, and down the stairs. He was filled with a calm, cold rage that scared even himself. He hadn’t remembered being this angry in centuries, not at Spain, not even at France. The maid from earlier shrunk back at his smooth strides. The room seemed to drop in temperature by several degrees. England approached the front door.

“Hey, you!” He shouted at the soldier. While it wasn’t the most polite of statements, England could not bring himself to give a shit.

The soldier stiffened upon seeing England walk closer. The man knew him as some commander of some sort, despite the fact that England’s state of dress argued for the contrary. All people of a nation subconsciously respected and obeyed their personification, something England turned to his own advantage.

“Sir?” The soldier asked, clearly confused.

England looked down at the poor colonist whimpering on the ground. He kneeled down, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder.

“You are alright now. He will not harm you any further,” England whispered.

The man turned to face him, unshed tears threatening to spill from his blazing eyes. England offered him a hand, and for a split second, the man looked at the nation with hatred. Then, the man’s gaze softened, and he looked up at England, grateful. He took his hand, and was pulled to his feet.

“Don’t mistreat our colonists,” England snapped at the soldier, who winced a little.

“Yes, sir,” The soldier grudgingly said.

With a salute, the soldier turned around and began walking in the direction of the town. A distant group of small houses was all England saw of the town. Perhaps he was fortunate that the hospital was located on the outskirts of the town. He had a bad feeling that whatever was going on in the town wouldn’t end up benefiting America’s health. If he strained his ears, he could barely make out distant talking from the villagers, but even more so ominous shouts from what were likely soldiers. England’s mood darkened considerably.

“Come, let’s get you to where you need to be,” England began, then asked the colonist where his home was. They made their way into the town after the soldier, whom both hoped they would not run into again.

As they walked, England passed crying women, men, and children of all kinds. Furniture and various other household objects littered the dirt streets. England suspected the worst, but everywhere he looked, he couldn’t find any present oppressor. Perhaps the result of the revolution really had affected them more than he hoped…

At last, they reached the colonists’ house. England bid him farewell, though the colonist simply whispered a very quiet, tense “thank you,” before disappearing into his home.

England turned around and walked back towards the hospital, all the while fearing for the colony-nation’s status.

On the second floor of the hospital, in a room dimly lit by a partially open window, a colony-once-more cried out in pain.

 

* * *

 

“General Howe,” the escort said, and saluted.

The general looked up from his paperwork, a giant roll of parchment almost as thick around as someone’s arm.

“Arthur Kirkland is here to speak with you.”

The general was approached by a man he himself had met and talked to not so long ago, during one of the strategic battle planning sessions in the War of the Failed Succession. Arthur Kirkland, a well respected higher-up, who acted almost as the right hand man of the king himself. Arthur Kirkland, who almost no one knew existed. Yet he seemed to be at the heart of all the planning and management of the country’s affairs. Howe frowned. He would never understand this person and the mystery around him.

“Good day, general,” England said as the door behind him was closed.

“Good day to you too, sir,” William Howe responded.

“If I remember correctly, I was summoned to this meeting. Is there anything important we should discuss?”

Howe frowned, deeper this time. How could Kirkland not know what they were supposed to discuss? The war had just ended, for Christ’s sake. What else _could_ they be discussing? It appeared the man really had been hit in the head more harshly that the nurses anticipated.

“Yes. We are supposed to discuss the terms of the new act to be passed regarding the rebels and the rest of the colonies,” Howe said, “And although the king has already decided on the terms by himself, and people of my position are not normally involved in these discussions, he trusts that you and I will have the proper judgement to discuss what we hope are… shall we say, more fair terms..”

The general’s tone bordered on biting sarcasm. England decided that he really, really was not in the mood to be deciding on America’s “punishment”.

“Actually, general, I was about to point out that it would make much more sense to first analyze the losses and survivors of the war,” England said. Perhaps it was a smarter choice to delay the discussion. Maybe England could convince the king and all his… side-assistants… to delay the decision so that he could protect America. There was quite literally no telling how harsh the punishments the king likely had in mind were.

“If you really must review them, here is a report,” Howe said, picking up a flattened parchment from an opened drawer England hadn’t noticed before and handing it to the nation. “It’s very recent. Counted up and made official only two days ago.”

England held the parchment close to his face. As he scanned the paper, a sense of complete horror began to overcome him.

_Estimates of the dead at 120,000._

Out of that 120,000, about 20,000 were British. The remaining 100,000 were a mix of colonial rebels, French, Spanish, and Native American allies. It was estimated that over 80,000 were American.

_Causes of death include battles, disease, and starvation._

England knew that his soldiers had taken many thousands of colonists as prisoners, and they were not treated well. At least half of those dead from disease and starvation had died as prisoners.

Suddenly, he felt sick.

“The death toll was rather high for us,” Howe said aloud, regaining England’s attention.

England didn’t know whether to snap something rather rude back, or stay silent. He eventually decided on staying silent.

“Well, now that you’ve gotten a clear reminder of the casualties, I believe it is time to discuss what you came here to discuss.”

England closed his eyes, took a breath, and exhaled, before once more turning to face the general.

“I will begin with my proposal, then,” Howe said.

“Of course, sir.”

William Howe stood up from his seat and wandered over to where a map hung on the wall. It was worn and full of little holes from where pins had been used to mark important locations. England watched as he traced the Hudson river and veered off to where Fort Ticonderoga lay, right at the border between what should have been New York and Vermont.

“From my experience as a general, the war was long, rough, and rather unnecessary,” Howe began, “You already know that there have been over one hundred thousand deaths resulting from the incompetency of the colonists.”

England slowly made his way to where Howe was standing, and the two studied the map as Howe continued.

“What do you do?” Howe asked suddenly, surprising England.

“Pardon?”

“What exactly is your occupation? I’ve heard that you work closely with parliament and even his majesty himself, if you’ll excuse my question,” he said.

England hesitated. William Howe and the other generals weren’t of high enough rank to know about England being a personification, though they did know him as a higher-up who rarely appeared but was always there in the government’s workings. It was best to stay with that alias.

“You are right. I do work with parliament, though I am not a member of either of the houses,” he said.

“Then you are aware of parliament’s feelings on this topic as well, I presume?”

“Partially.”

Howe sighed, and when England glanced at him again, he noticed that the general was angry, with a distant look in his eyes.

“I have seen a bit of brutality in this war, and I do not think that crime should be forgiven easily,” Howe said, and paused, and closed his eyes, “I’ve lost some of my best men fighting, as have all of the other generals.”

England tried to look sympathetic, but he could hardly think over the implied meaning behind those words.

“What I am saying is that the remaining prisoners and rebels should be tried of treason, and if found guilty, shall be executed.”

Silence.

England couldn’t believe his own stupidity. Despite what he had read earlier, he should have known that there were still some prisoners from the colonies who were alive, and there were likely thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of them. If what Howe was suggesting became reality, then America would face large portions of his population being massacred. The colonies would be treated brutally and without mercy. The king himself would make sure of that.

“General, I must disa-” England started, but was interrupted before he could even say his thoughts aloud.

“Pardon my interruption, but I must finish,” Howe said, a deep frown set on his face.

The general moved to point to one of the harbors off the coast of Massachusetts.

“Most of our navy is either anchored here or will be passing through in the next few months. Many of the prisoners taken were put into the ships, for lack of better places. As of now, there are around a thousand prisoners spread throughout forty-two ships. They will be held on the ships until they are to be moved, which is when I propose the trials will take them.”

Howe pointed at an area further inland.

“There are around two towns currently containing another two thousand prisoners. We currently have soldiers guarding them. There are, of course, still more prisoners, but I believe you understand my point.”

Howe turned away from the map to look England in the eye.

“I forgot to mention something. You know that the war was very unorganized. Despite our best attempts at clearly marking and counting the number of rebel soldiers, we cannot be entirely sure. Our spies have, however, encountered rebel spies,” he paused to allow that information to sink in, “And many rebel spies have been reported throughout the colonies. They hide amongst the colonists, you see, and the colonists aid them throughout their travels.”

England’s eyes narrowed at Howe’s implications. Howe stared back, a mask of perfect neutrality.

“The colonists, too, should be tried. And if found guilty, they shall also be executed.”

Again, there was silence.

“You are mad!” England cried, and this time, he didn’t bother trying to hold back his anger.

“I am not. It must be done. Justice must be served to the guilty,” Howe stated.

“You can’t just try and execute hundreds of thousands of people! Especially if they were completely uninvolved, like the colonists. And what about those prisoners? Most of them surrendered, and allowed for themselves to be captured! They clearly do not deserve something as a-”

“Of course they do. It has already been ordered by his majesty and parliament,” the general said, and this time, he almost sounded smug.

England wanted to punch that hint of a smirk right off his face.

“I thought we were here to discuss this!” he screamed.

“We were,” Howe agreed, “But we were here to simply reflect on the terms, which I helped propose several days ago. We were never allowed to make the terms.”

A cool, liquid well of dread and hatred filled England. How dare they? How dare parliament not consult him before they decided on this? He began to feel tears at the corners of his eyes. How could they?

“Arthur, sir, I know this may be particularly emotional news for you, seeing that you have a younger brother living here in the colonies, and I even suspect that he may have influenced your opinion on the terms of punishment for the rebels…” Howe began.

England found that he had slowly been backing up against his will. His eyes were wide in disbelief and horror and he held his hands up, as if to fend off the harsh reality that had just sealed the fate of hundreds of thousands of people who had only wanted justice.

Was this some kind of cruel joke by his fairy friends? Transporting England into the past when he only asked to see an alternate future? Keeping him trapped in the past, in an alternate future so much darker than he had hoped? An alternate timeline in which England had hurt America, out of all the things he could have possibly done? And England wasn’t even allowed to help America’s people, to save them from his own!

“Don’t be upset,” Howe said, “The king was afraid your prejudiced feelings towards the rebels would drive you to be sympathetic to their crimes.”

England did not cry, but he still knew he was defenseless and could not stop the impending storm.

“You were never given the chance to decide their fates.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Henry Clinton and William Howe did not like each other.  
> -The banyan was the colonial era equivalent of pajamas. It looked sort of like a nightgown. I’m not sure if it was worn in both the colonies and England at the time… but…  
> -General William Howe isn’t necessarily a bad person, but I had to make SOMEONE evil/cruel in this chapter, and I guess he just happened to be on the receiving end of my creativity.  
> -I have no idea what kind of emotional turmoil overcame me and enforced me to write something like this. And yet I still suck at writing emotional scenes.


	3. Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A certain important political figure is nearly executed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's been like 4 months since I updated this. Sorry for the wait, guys. I kind of suddenly lost inspiration for this fic, and then regained it after reading about 20 other revolutionary usuk fics. Heh. The plot is kind of limp at the moment but it will get thicker. Soon.
> 
> Happy New Year!

Ten days had passed.

Ten days since General Howe released the news about the colonists’ punishment.

England had spent those ten days doing almost nothing whatsoever. Nothing that could really be considered important and effective, anyway, against what was to be certain doom for the majority of America.

And to reflect on the final order, it didn’t even make sense. England knew that there was no way the crown’s courts combined could ever find the time or resources to successfully try every single colonist in America. Not that actually trying the millions of colonists would actually change the politicians’ resolve. Either way, the colonists would be brutally treated. England knew his government couldn’t afford to downright execute every single colonist, but intense laws and burdens of “service” would be put in place to substitute for the harsh executions. America would forever be under the iron clutches of England’s own government.

England finally entered the hospital, took the stairs up one floor and walked into the last door on the right of the hallway. He had become familiar to the path he had to take. It was the same thing every morning, in all of those ten days. Wake up, run down to the hospital, check on America, make sure he was still alive.

(He pretended not to notice the guards posted behind the building, guarding it to make sure England’s so called little brother couldn’t run away.)

England found that he was unable to make too much noise. He hesitated before placing his hand on the cool metal of the doorknob, then slowly, slowly, opened the door. There was America, all right, still in the bed with the white covers and sheets, passed out and oblivious to the world’s happenings. The floorboards creaked as England walked across them. He winced every time the noise got too loud; even though America wouldn’t awake, he didn’t want to ruin the almost serene peace that had settled in the room.

He sat by the small wooden stool that awaited him by the side of the bed. For the next few minutes, he didn’t even move. He simply gazed at America’s unconscious form, hoping and praying that the poor boy would hang on for as long as he could, and that he would awake, and be alive. But England knew that with the way his own government had decided on treating the colonies that it was highly likely America wouldn’t awaken for a very, very long time. If he would wake up at all, a darker part of England’s mind added.

He shuddered at his own horrible thoughts and immediately put them out of his mind. No. America would live. He would make sure of it.

Without anything else to do, England simply started running his fingers through the teen’s hair. It was still the same golden hair he had known for so, so long. America’s sleeping face did not even twitch at the touch, and England found himself almost longing for some sort of reaction. He pictured a different, albeit frequently occurring situation…

_America sat with England on the couch during one of their movie nights. The touchy nation shuffled closer and closer to his older counterpart until eventually he was basically resting his head in England’s lap. England, as a result, tried to no avail to push him off. He then settled for running his fingers through the lad’s hair, and reminiscing. And England may have pretended not to notice, but he would still freeze whenever America let out a soft sigh and snuggled closer._

Now, those memories only made England sadder. He decided to stop with the petting as it was getting them nowhere and only making his heart ache.

England looked over America’s form one last time, then stood up and dusted off his clothes. He left without another word. The floorboards creaked under his feet.

When he finally stepped out of the dark hospital, the sounds of crunching shoes and clanking carts greeted him. The normally empty and quiet dirt road was busy with people. Some walked along in groups, and others sat in carts pulled by horses. They were all heading in one direction: to the nearby town.

England pulled his coat tighter around him. He knew why they were gathering.

Without further ado, he made a quick decision in his mind to follow them. He easily slipped into the stream of chatting people, and was swept away by the movement.

 

* * *

 

The main dirt road intersected with one other dirt road at the first crossroads in the area. It was there that the gravel-covered ground turned into something slightly more fine and perhaps more suitable for milling around in. Some of the biggest and most important buildings in the town stood around the roads, such as the town hall, and the church, which stood diagonal from each other across the center. And in the center of the crossroads, there was a giant square which boasted a single wooden platform attached to a pole. The people had already gathered in the square, and, without anything else to do, simply wandered around the area.

England pushed his way through the crowd as politely as possible. He couldn’t help it when his gaze was drawn to the long, looped rope being prepared on the pole. All other implications of the impending execution were immediately shot down by a more calm part of his mind which told him to not pay too much attention to his emotions, which were having a field day. Emotions led to irrational behavior. Irrational behavior, England had learned, usually led to bad consequences. He would keep calm for today.

But he still wasn’t sure why there were so many people gathered here today for the executions. The past few days, there were a few hangings, and yet the crowds had gradually thinned out until almost no one was left. What made today different?

It was still fairly early in the morning, maybe around 8:00 am, if he were to make an estimate. He knew that usually the hangings didn’t happen until around noon, though they had been occurring at around 10:00 in the morning the past week due to the sheer number of them. He had time to calm down, and think of something logical to do that would help the situation and definitely not make it worse.

The crowd continued to mill around, and the noose continued to swing around ominously from high above. England decided that he would not stand around for another two hours, and began pushing through the crowd to try and reach the edge of the square.

From his previous knowledge, he knew that down at the far end of one of the dirt roads was a jail, or a building that was as close to a jail as it could be. Whoever the noose was intended for was probably in the jail in the moment. England didn’t know why, but he had a strangely bad feeling about this prisoner. After all, it was only a matter of time before they moved the executions from the criminals to the “rebellious traitors.”

In the meantime, he decided to wait around somewhere else. Perhaps the execution would only be that of a common criminal, though England had no idea how the officers had found the time to capture a criminal when a rebellion had been going on.

(He knew what would really happen. He just didn’t want to admit it.)

He also knew that the smartest thing to do would be to head over to the jail building, and see who it really was that was being prepared for execution. But he had slight doubts about his authority. After Howe had revealed the king’s dark intentions, England had nearly strangled him. It took nearly two guards and another commander to pull him away. England had only left after giving the general his darkest of glares, usually only reserved for traitors and backstabbers to his trust. He was sure that none of the men trusted him now. In fact, a warning had probably gone out to all the troops, something along the lines of “avoid Kirkland. He is emotionally unstable. Do not obey his orders.”

Several other buildings were open for entry. As England looked around, he spotted a large and nicely furnished wood building. A tavern. People continuously streamed from the gaping crowd in the town center to the tavern and back. It also looked like some pretty intense discussion and debating was going down.

Perhaps he could find out some more information if he entered.

England excused himself and apologized as he pushed through the crowd towards the building. As he got closer, something about it started to bother him. He had been here before, he was sure of it; not just because it was a tavern in Boston, as he had definitely been to most of those, but because he knew that before he had messed up and gone back in time, during the actual Revolution, he had been here. He couldn’t remember for the life of himself what it was for, though.

He looked up at the doorway as he passed it. There, on a metal overhang, was a little copper dragon turned green from age.

England excused himself again as he passed a couple.

Almost immediately, the smell and sounds of the tavern hit him full blast. The floor was dimly lit by the light of a central fireplace. The ceiling was low and made of dark wood. Several tables lay scattered around the place, and people rushed to and fro, some crowding around certain tables at which verbal fights seemed to intensify.

He sneaked along in an attempt to keep a low profile. His commoner’s clothing would help him fit in, he hoped. If anyone were to recognize him as the infamous Arthur Kirkland, there could be a problem, especially with the built up tensions from the recent announcements of executions and mass trials.

It was best for him not to approach anyone.

However, standing around wasn’t going to make him look any less suspicious. He needed to make a decision, to go somewhere instead of loitering.

That one table over there. Strangers were approaching it and listening in. It seemed that he would appear perfectly normal if he were to do so as well. He began walking towards it.

“...British made the announcement in a very peculiar manner. I suggest they’re planning something unusual. This public hanging is definitely more for show than for a criminal,” one man whispered.

“I agree. It doesn’t make sense for them to order us all to the town center to witness the hanging of a mere criminal, and I bet it will most likely be somebody they’ve captured in one of the naval battles,” another replied.

Ah. They were discussing the impending executions.

“I ought to tell them they shouldn’t try to intimidate us! A mere capture of one army is hardly representative of the entirety of the colonies,” a lady added.

Quiet murmuring of agreement broke out between the people crowding around the table.

“Gentlemen,” England piped up, “Have you heard the recent orders they’ve administered?”

The table was silent. A bead of sweat trickled down the base of his neck. Had he been recognized?

“Unfortunately, yes,” one of the men from earlier agreed grimly.

“What orders?” Several other people asked.

“The orders for mass trials of all colonists,” England muttered.

Apparently only a few people had heard the news. England had suspected that the news would spread quickly and enrage everyone. Apparently, the royal government had decided to delay the arrival of the news, probably to keep all the colonists from trying anything until it was too late. The strategy made sense, of course. But England couldn’t help but feel that these people were being violated.

“My lord!” Another man cried, “What do they think they are doing? Do they expect us all to come along obediently and accept whatever horrible titles and punishments they assign to us?”

The murmuring around the crowd increased dramatically in volume.

England grew pained with the discussion. Here these people were, confused as to their future. Their forces, though unrelated to their own lives, had just been defeated. The colonies had lost a revolution, and now faced their imminent punishment. He remembered his discussion with Howe, and grew bitter with anger.

“My friend, I understand how you feel,” another man replied, and England didn’t realize he was being talked to directly until he was patted on the shoulder.

For these people to accept him as one of their own, even though he was the very symbol of the government oppressing them… it hurt him to think about it.

Their hearty discussion continued for a very long time. New people came and old ones left. Sometimes they paused to check on the progress of the public hanging, but nobody had been brought up yet. England waited, and waited, and waited some more. He found that he was twiddling his fingers involuntarily from his nervousness. He had a feeling he would not like what he saw when the execution began.

Eventually, the citizens seemed to tire of their talk, and moved on to more everyday subjects.

“Simon, how is your cow faring?” One person began.

“She still seems to be sick,” a man presumably named Simon replied, “and until she is well we won’t drink her milk.”

These were all local residents, then, England noted. The people here seemed to know each other personally. Did they meet at this tavern often?

He couldn’t really participate in the conversations, as none of the people had known him before, and partaking in casual conversation about their everyday lives wouldn’t be very polite. Instead, he pulled up a chair to the round table and sat down, waiting for a conversation topic to come up that he could actually contribute to.

The bustling of the tavern grew in volume. It seemed that many people had gotten tired of standing around in the plaza, and were now heading to the tavern to get a quick drink and maybe something to eat. It was a wonder there were so many people. Had the entire town spontaneously just showed up at the town center?

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, England saw something.

In the corner of the tavern, two men from the table had gotten up and were standing together in the shadows. One quickly slipped the other a piece of paper. The other slid the paper into his coat pocket, and then turned around and headed to the other side of the tavern. Both pretended not to have made that exchange, or to even know each other.

It wasn’t the most strange thing England had ever seen, but something about that exchange stuck out to him. And then he remembered something else.

_“America, this is the most ridiculous show I’ve ever heard you rambling on about, and that really is saying something, considering the amount of ridiculous shows you have,” England snapped._

_“Hey! It’s not ridiculous, it’s cool! Plus it has espionage in it. And espionage is cool,” America replied._

_“But not in this way. I’m sure half of the so called ‘historical accuracy’ in this show is complete and utter crap.”_

_“That’s because you weren’t there to see the spy rings in action, and that’s also because they helped me win in the end,” America laughed, then pressed play on his remote and snuggled up to England, who was still reeling from the mention of_ that _war._

_On the television, the title card of the show flashed in black and all capital letters._

TURИ

WASHINGTON’S SPIES

And all of a sudden, England understood everything.

But before he could react to this newfound knowledge, several people came running into the tavern, all breathless and red-faced.

“They’re starting the execution.”

England’s blood turned to ice, and so did every other person in the tavern’s. A wave of people, running from their tables and knocking over chairs and each other rushed outside, squeezed through the tiny doorway, to merge with the crowd of spectators already waiting.

When England finally got close enough to see what really was going on, his jaw dropped open, and hung there. Disbelief washed over him in waves. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t possibly be. But knowing the royal crown, he shouldn’t really have expected anything different.

Two soldiers in distinct red coats were walking across the plank, carrying with them a single man, stripped of the usual military garb he was depicted in. His hair was grey with powder and still tied back in that same queue. His worn undershirt and breeches were the only things he had.

Somehow, the display of such a great figure as General George Washington in such a state did nothing to contain his greatness.

The others in the crowd seemed to realize that too. But as news of the about-to-be-executed passed around, so did anger, which quickly spread like wildfire until the entire town was raging and screaming threats and crying. England was caught in the emotional turmoil. Out of fear for dear America, who, for all he knew, was still lying unconscious and badly wounded in a bed in the hospital, England wondered what would happen if Washington was killed. Would he even survive without his idol?

One of the two men in red called up a third, then a fourth man to come up and guard the gallows. Several other soldiers filed in, pushing through the crowd, and made their way to their positions standing guard around the base of the gallows. It looked like they had implemented maximum security. Just when England thought there wouldn’t be any more people coming in, a horse-carriage rolled into the square. The door swung open and yet another person stepped out.

This person wore an elegant red coat extensively decorated with pins. His hat was adorned with a tall bundle of feathers -- a symbol of elitism. The epaulettes on his shoulders signified his rank.

England had a feeling that he knew who this man was as well, but couldn’t quite place his name.

The person made his way to the wooden platform, then pulled a long scroll of paper from his pocket, and began to read, even as the crowd surged and cried and booed him.

“For his crimes of insurrection against the royal crown, and for instigating fear among the public and the kingdom at large, George Washington will hereby be hanged on this day of November eleventh, 1777.”

The man continued speaking. England was too deep in shock to really register whatever the words were, but he was sure that they were merely written and recited as a fear mongering tactic among the people. England remembered how executions were held in the eighteenth century. He remembered he had attended quite a few himself. He even remembered being part of the planning for one a long time ago. He knew how they worked.

Executions were always public, as to teach the general mass of people that they, too, could be the ones hanged at any moment, and that they needed to repent and beware of all sins, theirs or otherwise. Only public demonstrations worked, or so he had believed, to stop the overflow of crime.

But this, this was merely a method of silencing the cries of the colonists.

England only tuned in in time to catch the last few words from the man.

“...And so be it that you, my fellow citizens, take this as an example of a traitor to our nation, and one person you must never strive to mimic.”

The man paused then, as if he weren’t yet finished. But then he rolled up the parchment and slid it back into his pocket, and stepped out of the way for the guards that had previously escorted the to-be-executed.

Washington was made to stand under the gallows. One of the soldiers slipped the noose around his neck.

The screams and protests of the crowd heightened in volume.

“Step forward,” the man ordered.

“No,” England couldn’t help but whisper, “This can’t be happening.”

He knew he couldn’t stop it. Not in time. He couldn’t reveal himself, for fear that he would mess up the flow of time forever.

The man moved his foot to kick the only wood plank keeping the general up away, and was suddenly stopped by a bullet. A single gunshot rang through the silent and still crowd. And then there was screaming. Absolute chaos. England ducked at the sound, looking around frantically for the source.

A band of civilians had run into the crowd, then jumped onto the gallows with sabres and pistols. The soldiers standing guard around the confused general fired randomly into the mass. Several civilians in the crowd fell, and the rest scattered with wild screams.

Suddenly the general fell. England screamed in horror, but then saw that the noose had been cut and was now only hanging limply off his neck. But there was still a distinct spot of red on his arm.

The band of armed civilians quickly fired back at the soldiers, many of which fell. Two men swooped in and grabbed Washington, and made a run for a group of horses that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere.

Something in England broke. He had to move. He had to move now. He slid behind the fray and approached the back of several remaining soldiers. England then used his own knowledge of hand-to-hand combat to knock out the remaining soldiers with several quick blows. One by one, they fell to the ground, unconscious. He whipped around to look at the civilian fighters, who had frozen in their movements to look at him. A tense second of silence passed between the two sides, when recognition settled in their eyes.

England gulped.

Nearby, the high-ranking representative that had read the execution order from before was lying on the ground, wounded in the leg, but not fatally.

“You,” he rasped. England realized he was the one being referred to.

The civilian fighters snapped out of their trance. In less than five seconds, they had zipped all the way across the square to the horses, and slung the injured general over the back of one. England found that in less than several more seconds, he too, was standing by the men.

“I want to help. Let me come with you,” he insisted.

The screaming of remaining civilians running around did enough to hide the exchange as it occurred.

The person, presumably the leader of the group, sitting on the black horse, turned around and gave England the most steely gaze he had ever been bestowed. Several other fighters had cocked their guns at the personification, and England knew he would most likely be shot. After yet another tense moment of silence, though, the man nodded to the others, and they lowered their weapons. England was completely shocked.

“You may come with us. But don’t think we don’t know who you really are.”

With that ominous warning, England was hoisted onto the back of a riderless horse. The horse snorted and flicked its ear at his hand. He found himself absentmindedly stroking its mane.

“Rider, keep your gun trained on him at all times. If he tries to do anything funny, you know what to do.”

A man cocked his pistol and held it in the direction of England’s head. He gulped.

The leader kicked his horse and cried out. All the other fighters followed suit, and together, the horses began running.

The injured representative, far off in the distance, could only crane his neck far enough to see a band of horses disappearing behind the curve of the road, dust flying around them. The armed civilian fighters had fled. The man gritted his teeth. Not only had they taken the prisoner that was to be executed, but they had killed several of his own men and injured him as well. The square had fallen into an ominous silence. The bodies of dead and unconscious soldiers and civilians lay scattered through the plaza.

The man groaned and tried to get up into a sitting position.

The sound of pounding hooves appeared out of nowhere, and steadily grew louder. Different hooves. Heavier hooves. Dust was kicked up all around the man’s body. He coughed and turned around, groaning at the pain that shot through his leg as he did so. The glare from the sun obscured the face of the man sitting on the horse looming over him. He was but a shadow of impending news and punishment.

“Just what happened here, representative?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes:  
> -The tavern that England visits is a real, actual tavern that existed at the time. It’s called the Green Dragon Tavern. Back in the day, taverns were the main community gathering spots for the people, who would go to them for food and for gossip. During the revolutionary days, important information and propaganda was spread throughout taverns. The tavern was unfortunately demolished in the mid 1800s. But I’m pretty sure a modern day company in California is trying to recreate it...  
> -Turn: Washington’s Spies is an actual show. I’ve never watched it but I’m sure it’s cool. It's about espionage and how it helped America win the Rev. War.  
> -Executions back in the day were public, and usually done by hanging. Before the execution some guy would come up and read this long thing meant to intimidate the public and the criminal. But before the criminal was executed, they would be offered a chance to repent their sins, and therefore maybe find favor in the eyes of god. The publicity of the executions were meant to show the public that any citizen could be executed, and that they weren’t any higher or better than the criminals, so it was their job to behave, or else.  
> -I also have literally no idea how British terminology works, since I (gasp) am American. So if any of y’all want to suggest spelling and vocabulary corrections, please do.  
> -As I mentioned before, I didn’t even bother looking up colonial terminology and syntax, because that’s difficult to write in and even more difficult to understand. Sorry history nerds. Historical fiction may be fun to read, but I would rather have it be easy to read than fully accurate (i say even though i am a history nerd the amount of hypocrisy is unreal).
> 
> \--
> 
> You're going to have to wait a while for an update. I haven't planned out a schedule yet and I'm really busy in the next few weeks.
> 
> This fic got a surprisingly large amount of responses and reviews despite the fact that I don't put as much effort into it as my other fics (*cough* please read my other fics thanks *cough*)... I wonder why...

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you'd like, please check out my other fics under this username! And here is my tumblr, if you are interested: cosmicconundrum.tumblr.com
> 
> [](http://cosmicconundrum.tumblr.com/)   
> 


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